


This is How We Spent the Summer

by Thetruehamsolo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up, Implied Minor Character Deaths, Kidlock, M/M, Rollercoasters, Sexual Tension, Skinny-dipping, Snakes, Summer Holidays, Teenlock, joining the army, uncomfortable situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 14,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1990887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thetruehamsolo/pseuds/Thetruehamsolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I saw the movie 'One Day' not so long ago and it inspired me to write this. This is a snapshot of our boys' lives on the third of August every year from the day they meet to later on in their lives (no one important dies though, I promise). There are thirteen chapters (and two epilogues) and I'll be posting one a day. The work is completely finished being written and there are no awful cliffhangers at the ends of chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 3rd August 2002 - John (8)

Harry had taken one look at their holiday destination and decided, obnoxiously loudly, that she wasn’t going to have any fun whatsoever. Fourteen year old sisters, John decided, were the worst. Still, John’s parents had trusted John into her care and gone ‘for a walk’. John didn’t understand why anyone would go to a water park to walk around but he didn’t really understand most of the things his parents did these days.  
  
Harry had taken John’s hand and tugged him in the opposite direction, grumbling the entire time. They passed ride after ride that John wanted to go on but he decided against speaking up. That was, until they reached ‘Pete the Pirate’s Treasure Island’.  
  
“I wanna go on that one.” John said pointing to the giant rollercoaster with glee.  
  
Harry sighed heavily but started walking towards the ride. Just before they could enter the queue, however, a tall boy (well, he was tall to John’s four foot three) cut in front of them, dragging with him a displeased-looking teenage boy.  
  
“Hey!” Harry protested. “We were here first.”  
  
The older of the boys turned to look at Harry. “I’m sorry.” He said, sounding like genuinely meant it. “But there’s no way I can make Sherlock move back in the queue.” He paused, sending a resentful glance at the boy. “You’re very welcome to try.”  
  
Harry huffed and said quite a few bad words. John covered his ears. He glanced up at the two teens, who had started talking quite heatedly, and then sidled between them to talk to the weird looking tall boy. “You’re Sherlock?” He asked shyly.  
  
“Obviously.” Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes.  
  
“I’m John.” The shorter boy introduced himself.  
  
Sherlock ignored him, staring intently at John’s sister Harry. John felt a little hurt until the tall boy spoke again. “She doesn’t want to be here either.”  
  
“Either?” John was confused.  
  
“Mycroft abhors anything to do with water. Doesn’t even drink it unless he’s forced to.”  
  
The tall boy sounded so repulsed by this that John couldn’t help but giggle. “How did you know Harry didn’t want to be here?”  
  
Sherlock hesitated for so long John thought he hadn’t heard the question. Just as he opened his mouth to repeat it, Sherlock spoke. “The slump of her shoulders as she walked here suggested it. I thought it was bad posture until she straightened up when she began talking to Myc. When I cut in front of you, her initial reaction was one of anger - but that’s natural to anyone in a queue - and then she realised she just didn’t care enough to push ahead.” Sherlock inhaled deeply, having said all of that in one breath.  
  
“That was amazing.” John said, probably louder than he had intended.  
  
Sherlock looked at him with a frown. “That’s not what people usually say.”  
  
John glanced up at him. “What do people usually say?”  
  
“‘Go away, freak’.” Sherlock quoted.  
  
“Oh.” John said. “Well I thought it was brilliant.”  
  
Sherlock grinned at him, saying nothing.  
  
“Do you… want to sit with me? On the ride, I mean. So neither of us have to go with our siblings.” John earned a nod (nothing more), so he continued talking. “Do you like pirates?”  
  
“Like them?” Sherlock scoffed. “I’m going to be a pirate when I’m older.” He said proudly.  
  
John gaped at him. “That’s so cool!” He gushed. “Are you going to own your own ship?”  
  
Sherlock nodded. “And my dog Redbeard and I are going to sail the seven seas with our high IQ pirate crew.”  
  
“That rhymed.” John said with a giggle.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, I shouldn’t have expected more from a six year old.”  
  
John pouted. “I’m not six, I’m eight!” He protested.  
  
“Well,” Sherlock said with a proud huff. “I’m older than you. I’m nearly nine.”  
  
“I bet I’m nearlier nine.” John grumbled.  
  
“ _Nearlier_ is not a word. When’s your birthday?”  
  
“7th of September.” John said. “When’s yours?”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “6th of January.” He said dejectedly.  
  
John punched the air. “I’m older than you.” He exclaimed, completely unnecessarily.  
  
By this stage, they had reached the top of the queue. The train arrived and the people got off (far more slowly than they should have, John thought). The barrier was pulled back and John raced to the first car. He looked up to see Sherlock stroll past him. “The last cars on a rollercoaster go faster, John.” He called. John frowned but hurried after him.  
  
“That doesn’t make any sense. They’re all stuck together.”  
  
“But when you go over a hill, the back cars are pulled forwards by the front cars and it feels faster.”  
  
There was a certain logic to that. John and Sherlock climbed into the back cars, not even noticing that Mycroft and Harry had left them. They’d find their older siblings when they left the ride, soaked to the skin and laughing like idiots. They wouldn’t leave each other’s sides for the next week of the holiday. 


	2. 3rd August 2003 - Sherlock (9)

John poked Sherlock in the chest, just under his fourth rib on the right side. Sherlock groaned and rolled over but he couldn’t escape John’s finger. He silently wished John had never found his weak spot. It felt like it was still about six am - looked about six am too, judging from the angle of the sun streaming through John’s bedroom window. No reasonable nine year old boys got up at six am during the summer. Especially not ones that were sleeping on air mattresses on the floor of their best friends’ bedrooms and _especially_ not Sherlock Holmes.   
  
“Get up, Lock. We’re going out today.” John said louding, prodding him again. The jabs got more and more insistent as Sherlock still refused to move.   
  
“We go out every day.” Sherlock grumbled into the pillow.   
  
John laughed. It was a gleeful bubbly sound that never failed to make Sherlock smile. Even at ungodly hours of the morning. “Today is special. We’re going to play rugby.”   
  
Sherlock balked. “We’re _what_?” He sat upright suddenly, knocking John sideways. He landed on the mattress with a quiet ‘whump’.   
  
“Playing rugby.” John repeated with a grin. He sat up, unhurt, and draped himself over the lap of the taller boy. “The sport where you -”   
  
“I know what rugby is.” Sherlock interrupted, his fingers subconsciously moving to run through John’s hair. “Why are we playing it?”   
  
“Because I have a match today and I want you to join me.”   
  
“You’ll lose the match.” Sherlock was not going to spend any time deliberating. At a young he had decided he couldn’t play any type of sports to save his life - without ever having experimented. He had eluded most types of exercise (did running from bullies count as exercise?) and he had no desire to change anything.   
  
John shrugged. “I’d prefer to be with you than win. Besides, it’s only a friendly and we’re a player short.”   
  
Sherlock huffed, unable to think of another excuse.   
  
"Come on, Lock. We only have a few days left until you go back to London. Then I won't see you for _ages_."   
  
"Couldn't I just cheer you on?"   
  
John rolled his eyes and sat up. Sherlock nearly whined at the sudden coldness of his thighs.   
  
"Pleeeaase." John begged.   
  
“Prolonging the amount of time you enunciate your vowels will not encourage me to change my mind.” Sherlock said, glaring at John as the shorter boy pulled off his pyjama top and shrugged into a jersey. “It’s more likely to have the opposite effect, actually, as you’ll irritate me into hating you.”   
  
John giggled (Sherlock buried his head in the covers; it wouldn’t do if John saw his smile). “You could never hate me, Lock.” He said with total conviction. Sherlock knew that was true. No matter how much he sometimes wanted to, he would never ever hate his tiny friend. He huffed into the duvet cover.   
  
When he finally emerged, John had left the room and there was a rugby uniform (like John’s but a few sizes bigger) on the sheets beside him. Sherlock growled at clothes but he pulled them on anyway. It wouldn’t do to have his only friend in the world hate him. Though Sherlock doubted John could hate him any more than he could hate John. He caught sight of himself in the mirror before he left the room. He glared at his reflection, running a hand through his embarrassing curls. He hated his hair. He sighed and went down for breakfast.   
  
*******   
  
Sherlock stepped out onto the field, glaring at John the whole time. He couldn’t believe he’d been talked into this. He was freezing. An upwards glance proved that it was probably about to about to rain; large almost black clouds stretched from horizon to horizon. The sidelines were filling up with parents and siblings. Sherlock longed to join them. Though he wished even more to kidnap John and skip the game altogether. He shook the idea from his head; John wanted to here.   
  
_Rugby_. He shuddered.   
  
“John?” He sidled up to his friend, still thinking up excuses. “I don’t even know the rules.”   
  
John snorted, not believing his friend for a second. “You can’t use that excuse, I explained the rules in the car.”   
  
“I… The radio was on. I couldn’t-” John silenced him with a look; he was fooling no one.   
  
“Five minutes, boys.” The referee called out.   
  
“I hate you.” Sherlock grumbled.   
  
“Sure you do.” John replied with a cheeky grin. 


	3. 3rd August 2004 - John (10)

It was very atypical funeral weather. John had been expecting it to rain, despite the time of year and weather forecast. But there wasn't a cloud in sight and it was warm enough to melt the tar on the road (which John would have played with like he usually did, but his mother had dragged him away, telling him he'd ruin his suit).   
  
John had never been to a funeral before. This filled him with a sense of dread; what if he did something wrong? John didn't know how to deal with crying people. At least Sherlock would be there, Sherlock probably didn't know how to deal with crying people either.   
  
John really hoped Sherlock wasn't crying.   
  
The train ride from Somerset to London was long and tiresome. John's mum poked and prodded at him and told him how he was to behave during the ceremony. John had to sit straight and not slouch, so he wouldn't crease his suit. He had to not fidget so people wouldn't be distracted. He wasn't allowed to talk to anyone and especially not to Sherlock.   
  
"At all?"   
  
"Not unless he comes up to you. This is a day for him and his family. We have to respect that."   
  
*******   
  
Sherlock looked good in a suit. Unlike John, who thought he looked like a well-dressed toad in his. John stood at the edge of the crowd gathered outside the big church doors, feeling very out of place. Sherlock, at last, spotted him and walked over.   
  
"Why didn't you say hello?"   
  
"Mum told me not to disturb you."   
  
People were filing into the church.   
  
"Will you sit beside me?"   
  
John shook his head hesitantly. "Mum thinks it wouldn't be proper."   
  
"Proper doesn't matter." Sherlock paused, red-rimmed eyes wide. "I don't want to be on my own, John."   
  
How could John say no? He followed his friend up to the top of the church where they slid into the front row. Mrs Holmes and Sherlock's brother ( _Mycroft?_ ) didn't bat an eyelid. John sat on Sherlock's right side, beside Mrs Holmes' mother. He softly said hello to her but, remembering his mum's instructions to keep quiet, said nothing more.   
  
The service began and Sherlock slid his hand into John's. John squeezed reassuringly, glad he wasn't allowed to talk. He wouldn't know what to say.   
  
Family and friends of Basil Holmes got up to speak one by one. After Mycroft went up to say his short speech, Sherlock took a crumpled piece of paper from his own breast pocket.   
  
"Read it for me." He begged in a whisper to John. "I can't go up there."   
  
"I can't. But I'll go up with you."   
  
"Hold my hand the whole time?"   
  
"Of course."   
  
Sherlock stood up and walked up to the altar. John followed close behind him, never unlinking their hands.   
  
"My dad," Sherlock began, voice booming into the microphone as if he was trying too hard to sound alright. "never force me to play sports or make friends my age. He bought me my first microscope when I was five and my first proper glass test tubes when I was six. When I was learning how to read, my dad sat beside me and helped me with the big words. When I told him I wanted to be a pirate, he didn't laugh like everybody else. Instead, he bought me a model boat that we could sail in the pond in our garden." Sherlock's voice was wavering slightly and John squeezed his hand slightly. "Dad was proud of me for who I was and never thought I'd be better as something else. I'm proud of him too, and very very glad that, even for only a little while, he was my dad."   
  
Sherlock finished his speech with a curt nod and hurried back to his seat. When he was safely out of sight from most people, he huddled against John and let out a hushed sob.   
  
John ran his fingers through Sherlock's mop of curls and said nothing. There was nothing to say.   
  
*******   
  
At the end of the service, Mycroft stood up (he had to be the tallest human being John had ever come across) and prized Sherlock off John. The young boys met eyes wordlessly, Sherlock's wet silver to John's deep blue, before Sherlock was dragged away. 


	4. 3rd August 2005 - Sherlock (11)

Sherlock had awoken early every day over the week he spent with John. Anything to avoid the boy's poking. They were visiting John's detestable cousins who lived in the Scottish Highlands.   
  
The Watsons were insisting they go out every day to go sightseeing. Sherlock didn't want to climb big mountains, even if John was there. He decided he prefered even rugby to mountain climbing. It might not have been so bad, Sherlock decided, if it weren't for Abby and Benny.   
  
Abby and Benny were John's cousins. Benny was sixteen and spent most of his time with Harry (though John clearly idolised him, watching him from afar like a kicked puppy), but Abby was only nine and Sherlock couldn't think of a way to get rid of her. She was in their room first thing in the morning (sometimes before Sherlock himself could get up), wailing of boredom and demanding a playmate.   
  
She trailed after them as they walked up the mountains, too, interjecting oh so unhelpfully into their conversations.   
  
Five days into the holiday, Sherlock had had enough.   
  
"Dr Rutherford might be the best teacher I've ever had." He announced happily as they trekked up Cairn Toul. "She's related to the famous physicist Ernest Rutherford and she tells very interesting stories and the last class we had with her before summer, she gave me some dilute hydrochloric acid, for me to do what I like with!"   
  
John grinned at him. "I wish I had teachers as cool as yours. My best teacher is my maths teacher, Mr Gates, no relation to Bill Gates, and almost deaf. Most people think he's going blind as well, but refuses outright to retire."   
  
Sherlock laughed as Abby piped in with: "My teacher is called Mrs Hughes. Daddy says she's been at the school since he was a boy."   
  
"I suppose the only reason she hasn't been fired yet is because no one would want to come to this hole of a town to work."   
  
John glared at him with a warning; "Sherlock." while Abby frowned and said "What?"   
  
"It's obvious you need glasses if the squint in your eyes is anything to go by and the fact that your teacher hasn't noticed yet proves her incompetance. Your brother never learnt the difference between 'done' and 'did', a mistake your father often makes; clearly the entire town has been taught by the same woman and no one knows better to change it. She's incompetant and inobservant but because you live in a horrible town in the middle of nowhere, she will continue teaching you all incorrect grammar until she drops dead."   
  
"Sherlock!" John snapped as Abby ran downhill to where the grown ups were ambling along.   
  
Sherlock looked at his best friend. "Not good?"   
  
"Not good at all." Came the curt reply.   
  
"But I made her go away, you dislike her even more than I do."   
  
John rolled his eyes. "That's not the point. You can't just deduce people like that, they don't like it."   
  
"You used to think it was brilliant."   
  
"I still do, but you'll never make any other friends if you spit all their secrets back in their face the first time you meet them."   
  
Sherlock met John's eyes and said, very seriously; "I've got you. Why would I need other friends?"   
  
This seemed to stop John in his tracks. "I... Because we live a hundred miles apart and you can't spend your whole life lonely when I'm not around."   
  
"Alone and lonely are not synonyms, John. I was perfectly happy on my own before I met you. Even now, it does not upset me to be alone. I am fond of company of some, mainly you, but I don't need it to survive. You're not so different."   
  
"Am I?"   
  
"You've dealt with being like me in a different way. Where I decided I didn't want to blend in and spent my time an outcast, you put on a façade and pretend you're just like them."   
  
"I do not."   
  
"Yes you do. I saw it happen, two years ago on the rubgy field. You're a different person around them."   
  
"A person you like less, I suppose."   
  
"You could become the second Hitler and I wouldn't stop liking you for a second, John."   
  
Well, that wasn't what Sherlock had meant to say. But perhaps it worked better than whatever he'd had in mind because John's angered melted away before his eyes.   
  
"Promise me something, Lock."   
  
"Anything."   
  
"If I ever do become the second Hitler, set me back on the right path before I kill too many people."   
  
Sherlock nodded, smiling. "I promise."   
  
They walked on in silence until John spotted a sheep. They then spent the rest of the journey up the mountain talking about sheep innards. Abby tried to interject once more before realising the conversation topic and running back down the mountain in tears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an eleven year old brother. You'd think I'd be able to write better eleven year old boys than this.


	5. 3rd August 2006 - John (12)

It was John's first time in London. Sherlock had spent days laughing at his wide-eyed gaze and exclamations of wonder as they walked around bustling shopping streets. John had pretended to be put out by Sherlock's teasing but he was in too much awe of the city and too happy being in Sherlock's company to mind, really.   
  
He decided he always wanted to live in London. The streets were bustling and lively and there was always something to see. There was a certain glow to it that you didn't see in small-town Somerset, a life that could only be described as _London_. They ran around the city like madmen, Sherlock dragging him by the hand to see this or that. He loved every second of it.   
  
On the third day, Sherlock woke John up by jumping on the end of his mattress and waving a newspaper in his face. John snatched the paper to read it on the open page.   
  
"Carl Powers? I'm sorry, Sherlock. Did you know him?"   
  
Sherlock shook his head. "Not at all, but I think that his death isn't the accident people assume it is."   
  
John frowned. "What do you mean?"   
  
The response he got was accompanied by a manic grin. "Murder, John."   
  
*******   
  
And so, the racing through London today was a little different. They were racing with a purpose; sneaking down alleyways to take short cuts, all so that they could arrive at the swimming pool (or the 'crime scene' as Sherlock was calling it).   
  
"Why are we investigating a murder, Lock?" John asked as they stopped to wait for pedestrian lights to go green.   
  
"Because I'm going to be a detective when I grow up." Sherlock proudly replied.   
  
"A pirate detective?"   
  
Sherlock shook his head. "Wanting to be a pirate is for babies. I'm going to get a real job."   
  
"Oh."   
  
The green man gave them his permission to cross the road, so off they ran again.   
  
The pool was closed when they finally did arrive, so John stood guard, wishing he was anywhere but there, while Sherlock tried to pick the lock.   
  
To John's relief, he couldn't.   
  
A police man walked by a few minutes later and Sherlock pestered him with questions about the 'case'. Anything from Powers' star sign to the pool's opening hours. None of the answers satisfied him and he was obviously getting more and more agitated by the lack of results. John dragged him away before he could bite the policeman's head off.   
  
They walked for a few minutes in silence before Sherlock began to run again. "Come on, John." He yelled to the smaller boy behind him.   
  
John went.   
  
Sherlock, finding the Powers' house after a stroke of genius, pestered Mrs Powers with similar questions to the poor policeman until the tearful women threatened to call the police on them. John took Sherlock's hand, apologised quietly, and pulled him from the house.   
  
The entire bus ride home, Sherlock kept muttering "The shoes, John. What about his shoes?"   
  
John didn't know the answer so he stayed silent.   
  
When they reached the Holmes' house, Sherlock retreated to his bedroom and locked the door. John, with a heavy sigh, took to the guest bedroom and read _The Hobbit_ until he fell asleep. 


	6. 3rd August 2007 - Sherlock (13)

Sherlock threw tantrum after tantrum after tantrum but his mother's answer didn't change;   
  
"You're too sick, Sherlock. You can't go to John's this year. I'm sorry."   
  
She didn't sound sorry to Sherlock.   
  
So Sherlock was forced to spend the _entire_ summer in bed with stupid glandular fever when he could have been at John’s, capturing hedgehogs and tromping through mud puddles. He didn’t even hear from his best friend for weeks. Sherlock cursed him. He cursed the doctors that had told him there was nothing to do but wait the illness out and he cursed the viruses in his system that had started this in the first place. He cursed his mother for keeping Redbeard away from him.   
  
But mainly, he cursed John. One summer John couldn’t see him and so he forgot about him! Well Sherlock decided he didn’t need John either. Stupid John with his catchy laugh and idiotic sense of humour. Sherlock really wished his heart wasn’t aching from the lack of contact, it didn’t really help his ‘not-caring’ argument.   
  
There was a knock on the door. Sherlock sat up straight. “John?” He said, far too eagerly.   
  
“Of sorts.” Mycroft’s slimy voice replied.   
  
Sherlock flopped back on the bed with a groan, “How are you ‘sort of’ John, Mycroft?”   
  
Mycroft, taking this as an invitation (even though it wasn't really), entered the room, a slight grin on his face. “I’m not trying to be John, he’s on the phone.”   
  
And suddenly Sherlock was all smiles again. He grabbed at the phone and Mycroft handed it over, far too relieved to see his little brother finally smiling to play his usual games.   
  
“John?” With a wave of his hand, Sherlock dismissed Mycroft. There was an amused snort and a click as the door closed once more.   
  
“Sherlock!” John said excitedly. “God, Sherlock, I miss you. Summer really isn’t the same without you. Abby came over this summer. She nearly cried with relief when she found out you weren’t here. It was so funny. She's got glasses now. They're horrid and lumpy and make her face look even roundier…” John babbled on about his summer antics and Sherlock listened silently. It almost didn’t bother him that he hadn’t experienced Harry falling into a lake first hand because John told the story with such glee and enthusiasm it was worth missing.   
  
After twenty minutes or so (though it felt like blissful hours to Sherlock), John’s story had slowed to an unsteady trickle of news stories. “What’s going on with you, Lock?” He asked with renewed vigour.   
  
“Nothing at all.” Sherlock said, pouting despite how happy John’s presence had made him. “Mummy won’t let me out of bed. I can’t even use my chemistry set.” He paused, trying to think of questions for John; he’d ask anything to keep the blond boy talking. “How’s that friend of yours?” Sherlock hesitated, trying to think of the name. “Sophie?”   
  
“Sarah.” John corrected, and the babble began again. “She’s fine. We’ve been seeing a lot of each other because her sister is dating Harry. So Harry and Michelle go off to the movies together and Sarah and I sit nearby. They have to pretend not to be dating because I don’t think Michelle’s mum would like it.” There was a thick pause.   
  
“Do you not hate hanging out with Sarah _all_ the time though?” Sherlock asked softly.   
  
John scoffed. “Of course not, she’s my girlfriend.”   
  
Sherlock went cold suddenly. He couldn’t have heard right. “What?”   
  
“Sarah admitted that she liked me so I asked her to be my girlfriend.” John sounded like he was positively glowing and Sherlock felt his heart plummet for a reason he didn’t quite understand.   
  
Sherlock realised John was probably waiting for some sort of verbal response. “Oh” was the best he could come up with on such short notice so “Oh” was all he said.   
  
He could practically hear John frown through the phone. “I really wish you were here, Lock.” He murmured. “Even Sarah’s got nothing on you.”   
  
Sherlock felt himself blush. “I have to go, John. Good afternoon.” He said hastily and hung up the phone before John could respond.   
  
*******   
  
When Mycroft returned, Sherlock was almost frantic. He’d looked through all his biology books and couldn’t find anything that described his symptoms. The phone had rung three times (all John) during his search and had been ignored three times (all Sherlock).   
  
“Sherlock.” Mycroft barked. “What the _hell_ is going on?”   
  
Sherlock sat back from scouring his books and leant against the bed. “There’s something wrong with me.” He said, sniffling.   
  
Mycroft snorted. “Of course there is, you’re bedridden.” He sat down beside his little brother. “Is there something else?”   
  
Sherlock nodded. “It was when I was talking to John. I felt fuzzy and I was blushing and… he started talking about his girlfriend and…” Sherlock trailed off with an angry, confused sob.   
  
“Oh.” Mycroft said simply. “I don’t think that’s a physical illness, Sherlock. To me, it sounds more like an emotional affliction.”   
  
Sherlock was stunned into silence. Mycroft, seeing the conversation was over, stood up, picked up the phone - hanging up on the fourth call as he did so - and left the room.   
  
Sherlock, brain aching from emotional confusion, climbed back into bed and went to sleep. 


	7. 3rd August 2008 - John (14)

John swiped the keycard on the hotel door and stepped inside. He had had a terrible day; flying with his family would have been bad enough but Sherlock was getting quicker with his deductions and he'd been snarky all day. John tried to push all the fights Sherlock had had with Harry out of his head as he dropped his bag and flopped on the large bed in the centre of the room.   
  
He'd excused himself from dinner the second he'd had the chance and bounded up the stairs. He collected his suitcase and Sherlock's from his parents' room (where they'd been hastily dumped before dinner) and staggered next door to the boys' room, number 221.   
  
He closed his eyes and drifted off, lying on top of the covers, still wearing his shoes and coat and snoring lightly.   
  
A while later, John was roused by a curly haired angel. "Is this heaven?" He mumbled drowsily before his mind woke up and he realised that it most definitely wasn't. It was a hotel room in Disneyland, Paris. There wasn't an angel in the room, it was only Sherlock. Who was, by no means whatsoever, an angel. "Uh, sorry." He said as he sat up and coughed awkwardly into his forearm. He yawned and stretched. "Why'd you wake me up?"   
  
Sherlock, who had retreated from the bed and was leaning, lanky-legged and looming, on the table in the room, looked at the floor. "You were taking up the entire bed." He said softly, face getting redder by the minute.   
  
"So?" John felt himself getting warm too and shrugged out of his coat and kicked off his shoes.   
  
"There was no room for... me."   
  
John's eyes widened. "You? Why would..?" He looked around the room properly for the first time. There was no second bed. "Oh. Can we not just-"   
  
He was interrupted. "There are no other rooms free. The hotel apologises profusely." Sherlock bent over his suitcase, probably to hide his burning face, John realised. "I'll get changed in the bathroom. You can change in here and I'll... take the floor."   
  
"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock." John was probably going to regret this. "We can share a bed for four nights."   
  
John's best friend seemed to freeze. "Fine." He said gruffly and ran into the bathroom.   
  
John stood up and pulled his tshirt over his head, bending to unzip his own suitcase and pulling out a pair of pyjamas. He slipped into them and turned to get into bed before freezing. What was he going to do? If he got into bed and began reading, that might look forcedly casual, if he sat in bed doing nothing it might look intimidating, it he lay facing away from Sherlock he would look cold but if he lay facing towards Sherlock he would look too... inviting. On the other hand, standing here and staring at the bed like it had just grown legs and danced a jig was not going to help anything at all.   
  
The short teen eventually settled for rooting through his suitcase to pick out clothes for tomorrow. He took out his toothbrush so he could scurry into the bathroom as soon as Sherlock left. The lanky genius could deal with the problem of sleeping positions.   
  
There was a knock on the bathroom door.   
  
"I'm decent, come in." John called to him.   
  
Before Sherlock could have even processed the situation (even with his quick mind), John was in the bathroom with the door locked. He walked up to the sink and set his toothbrush and paste down, staring at himself in the mirror. He was about to sleep with Sherlock Holmes. In the sleeping sense not... John shook the thought away. That wasn't helping. He could make it through the night without doing something stupid that would more that likely ruin their friendship, couldn't he?   
  
But it wasn't just one night, John's mind reminded him, it was four and there was no way he'd make it that long. They could go to the hotel staff again tomorrow and maybe they'd get a twin room then. It'd probably work out. Probably.   
  
John nodded to himself in encouragement and picked up his toothbrush. He brushed his teeth slowly, deliberately brushing each tooth. When he had spent as long in the bathroom as he possibly could (he'd peed twice, washed his face once and even washed his feet), he sidled out of the bathroom.   
  
Sherlock was in bed. He'd claimed the right side, which was fine. He'd probably done so, John realised, because the genius realised that John tended to favour the left side of his bed back home, even when he was alone. He was reading the book John had gotten him for his last birthday. It was a book on crime in the twentieth century and, although it had been in Sherlock's possession for less than eight months, it looked so well-loved and dog-eared it could have been decades old. Sherlock didn't even glance up as John closed the door and slinked over to the double bed. His own book, an equally dog-eared (but slightly older) edition of _the Hobbit_ , was on his bedside table. Sherlock must have put it there, John thought, as he'd left it in his suitcase. He felt a surge of warmth in his chest for the raven-haired idiot.   
  
He slid under the covers and picked up his book, opening it at the bookmark. Blibo Baggins was talking to Gollum, solving the riddles that would save his life.   
  
"An egg," came a voice from beside John (the ' _obviously_ ' was implied). "Really, John, what sort of a hero is this Bilbo if he takes that long to get such a simple riddle?"   
  
John rolled his eyes. "If he was too smart, people wouldn't relate to him. He wouldn't be as popular as he is now." He suddenly realised the second meaning his words had and froze. "I..."   
  
"I know, John. No one could ever love a know-it-all." Sherlock's book was suddenly on his bedside table, the light on his side of the bed off and his back to John.   
  
John put his book down, reaching out to touch Sherlock's shoulder. "I didn't mean it, Sherlock. I... It's not even true; I'm an idiot and I relate to you just fine." John heard a snort from the Sherlock-shaped lump of bedsheets and smiled. He leaned back as Sherlock turned over. He wasn't smiling, but John could change that fairly easily.   
  
John turned over to flick off his own light and felt the mattress behind him dip. Arms snaked around him and John relaxed against Sherlock. "Is this a devious scheme to get me to keep still at night?" John teased. It was no secret that he thrashed like an octopus for the most part of every night.   
  
"Perhaps." Came the muffled reply, warm breath tickling the hairs on the back of John's neck. "But it's also to keep myself warm; I seem to have not packed anything warm enough."   
  
"Well, I suppose one would think Paris is August would be warmer than this." Sherlock nodded against John's neck and John yawned. "G'night Sherlock." He murmured; it was probably better to sleep now before he said something they'd both regret.   
  
"Goodnight John."   
  
Sherlock's breathing slowed immediately, but John knew he wasn't asleep. He resisted the urge to snuggle closer to the body of warmth at his back. Soon his eyes began to droop, and moments later he was snoring lightly.   
  
*******   
  
John woke up before Sherlock did, wrapped up in a mess of arms, legs and blankets and harder than he'd ever been before. He wriggled out of the taller teen's arms (Sherlock sighed and shuffled slightly) and had a cold shower to fix his problem.   
  
And boy, John thought, was this going to be a problem. 


	8. 3rd August 2009 - Sherlock (15)

It was the first really sweltering summer England had had in years. Sherlock had been invited to stay with John's family in his late grandfather's cabin. The holiday might have been enjoyable had the cabin been by a lake or even a river but instead it was in the middle of a forest. Yes, the trees offered some shelter from the rock-splitting sunshine, but the heat was still there and the Watsons and Sherlock spent their days sweating their body weight in water and showering in ice cold water twice a day.   
  
John was grumbling more than most, but it was not the heat that frustrated him the most. It was his daft best friend. Sherlock had always been taller than John by an inch or two but, in the year since they'd last seen each other, he'd shot up. He was at least a head and a half taller than John. And his voice had broken into a deep rumbly baritone while John was left squeaking like a seven year old.   
  
Sherlock tried not to tease his best friend, he really did. He left a lot of things unsaid, just smiling mockingly when John had to ask Sherlock to reach a can of soup on the top shelf, or squeaking quietly behind his palm whenever's John's voice shot particularly high.   
  
The boys had spent their days clambering around streams and forests and their nights staying up until three am whispering in the darkness of their bunk beds. Sherlock suspected it was the best holiday he'd ever had, including his past ones with John.   
  
They were a week into the holiday when the announcement came through on the radio. It was early evening and the sun was low in the sky, a perfect gold orb hanging in the cloudless azure. Sherlock was reading his latest present from John ( _Poisons of the Rainforest_ ) in the treehouse, his head in John's lap and John's fingers in his hair. He didn't think his friend was doing anything other than watching him read and that particular thought made him blush. Sherlock's feet dangled out the tree house door and he was sure they'd get sunburnt but he was too comfortable to move. The only sounds were of the too hot breeze in the leaves of thirsty trees and the faint drone of a radio presenter from inside the house where Mrs Watson was listening to the seven o'clock news, like every evening. Sherlock felt himself drifting off when the yell came. Both boys shot up in fright, suddenly awake. They both peered out of the treehouse.   
  
"What is it, mum?" John called down, concerned, for it was she who had yelled. He was ignored as John's dad had disappeared into the house to find out what the ruckus was. John nudged Sherlock out of his way and climbed gingerly down the ladder and running into the house. Sherlock followed only a few steps behind him. John's mother was sitting at the kitchen table with her head in her hands.   
  
"What's wrong, mum?" John asked once more, growing pale with concern.   
  
"Water shortages, son." Mr Watson said. "They're only turning the water on from nine til eleven am in this region."   
  
So much for showering twice a day then, Sherlock thought. It did make sense; everyone in the country must be using water the way they were in the cabin. Mrs Watson tended to wildly overreact to these things.   
  
"We'll go back home tomorrow, Anna. There'll be more water there." Mr Watson was saying. "We should have enough water for all of us to shower tonight and then we'll leave for home early tomorrow." Sherlock hoped 'home' didn't mean his going back to London and John to Somerset. They had been promised two weeks together, Sherlock couldn't stand to see that cut short.   
  
John must have been thinking the same thing. "Sherlock will stay with us for the next week and go home on the tenth like we planned, won't he?"   
  
Mrs Watson nodded. "Of course dear." It was clear she wasn't really paying attention.   
  
Harriet was informed, after she got out of the shower herself, of these shortages and pretended to be upset by the thought of leaving the cabin in the arsehole of nowhere.   
  
Mrs Watson took the next shower, and Mr Watson took the shower after her. They checked the meter on the water tank.   
  
"Only water enough for one shower boys, you can squabble over it amongst yourselves."   
  
Sherlock was sweating like a pig and felt his curls and clothes were sticking to him. There was only one thing he could say: "John can have it."   
  
"Sherlock can have it." Came a squeak from behind him at the very same time. The boys glared at each other as if to say 'Shut up and let me be a good friend'.   
  
Mr Watson laughed and retreated to his bedroom to let them sort it out themselves.   
  
"I don't need it, Sherlock." John insisted. "You've been uncomfortable all day with that mop of hair attracting the sun and all that."   
  
"You haven't been any more comfortable, so don't use that as an argument." Sherlock snapped.   
  
There was a long silence.   
  
"We could both use it." John suggested, uncharacteristically timid.   
  
"There isn't enough water, John. Just have your damn shower." Sherlock rolled his eyes.   
  
"I mean... I meant... Together."   
  
Sherlock froze. He must have heard wrong. He must have heard the next bit wrong as well, because he swore he could hear his own voice answering with an eager 'ok'.   
  
This was not going to go well at all.   
  
They slipped into the bathroom without being noticed and were completely silent as they took off their clothes. They both hesitated when they reached their underpants and glanced up to meet eyes (both had madly flushing faces; this clearly made John uncomfortable, Sherlock wondered why the shorter teen had suggested it).   
  
John leaned in and switched on the water. The shower was set to its coldest setting and Sherlock thanked god for small mercies; the frigid water would wash away most of the arousal that he felt. He could always will the rest away.   
  
"Sherlock?" John was waving his hand in front of Sherlock's face. The shorter teen was already in the shower, curtain pulled around him to shield himself from Sherlock's gaze. He nodded and slid off his briefs, slipping into the shower with his usual elegance.   
  
John kept his eyes rigidly forward, not lower than Sherlock's upper chest, and even then, his eyes barely rested on the taller teen at all. Sherlock tried to do the same but, when John turned his back to him, he couldn't stop himself dropping his gaze to look at John's arse. It was just as perfect as Sherlock had imagined, slightly paler than the rest of his skin but not the milkbottle white of Sherlock's skin, and as round as... nothing Sherlock could compare it to that would do it justice. The skin looked so absolutely soft that he just wanted to get on his knees and bite it, lick it, suck a purple bruise onto it to break the golden expanse.   
  
John began to turn back again and Sherlock grabbed a bottle of shampoo quickly and turned away to get out of the water spray to rub it into his hair.   
  
If John so much as glanced at Sherlock, he did so so stealthily that the genius didn't notice. That was unlikely as Sherlock noticed everything.   
  
All too soon, and yet not soon enough, it was time for them to get out of the shower. Sherlock didn't watch John dry himself and redress and they made it back to their room without being spotted.   
  
Sherlock collapsed on the lower bunk, completely exhausted, which was odd for so early in the evening. Without even looking at his poison book, he curled up and closed his eyes. John turned the bedroom light off.   
  
Both sat in the suffocating silence not knowing what to say and waiting for the other speak. So neither ever said a word. It was the longest and quietest night of Sherlock's life, and, despite his exhaustion, it took him nearly four hours to get to sleep. 


	9. 3rd August 2010 - John(16)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating last night. Everything was really hectic and I didn't get home til late.
> 
> There will be another chapter tonight, because I have a schedule to stick to.

It was raining. It was England so no one should have been surprised, but, for some reason, John's parents decided it might be fun to go camping. So, despite water enough to fill a small ocean battering down on them, the Watsons set off in their small hatchback Renault to stay in the middle of nowhere for three days. John had convinced Sherlock to come; there was no way he was going through the torture on his own.  
  
It rained the entire car journey up to the forest and, knowing the Watsons' luck, it would rain the entire three days of their trip too. John was pressed up against Sherlock on one side, the window of he car on the other side. There were bags of food and blankets around his feet. He had no room to move. And there was an itch in his arse. Typical.  
  
There were three tents to be put up, one for John's parents, one for Harry and one for Sherlock and John. The plot they had rented was big enough for about five of such tents, with room to breathe around the sides. Space wasn't an issue. Putting up a tent in the rain so the inside stayed dry; that was a little more challenging. Despite having to make a tent with Sherlock, proven to be the most difficult human being in all of history (especially when his smart-arsedness is just not necessary), John managed to have his tent completely finished before anyone else. John and Sherlock waited in the stuffy dryness for the others to finish.  
  
Next came the problem of bedding. They had with them a double air-mattress (which was, of course, for John's mum and dad), a single air mattress (snagged by Harry) and two sleeping bags. Or rather...  
  
"Dad? Where's the second sleeping bag?"  
  
"I left it on the kitchen table with the food. Anna?"  
  
"I only brought the Tesco bags with food in them."  
  
Great.  
  
Harry refused to surrender her air mattress. John called her a lot of horrible names under his breath.  
  
Sherlock offered to sleep on a spare blanket. There were, of course, no spare blankets. Because that would be too simple.  
  
John shrugged, said they could just share the damn sleeping bag, and went off to take a much needed shower in the toilet complex a little ways from their plot.  
  
After his shower, John returnes to find that dinner consisted of sandwiches. The rain was too heavy to have the barbecue they'd planned. He rolled his eyes and decided he was never going camping again.  
  
Finally, night fell and John's mum shooed them off to bed. In their two-person tent, John on his knees and Sherlock on all fours, they realised they now had the problem of getting into the sleeping bag.  
  
It took a lot of fumbling and banging of elbows into ribs and other body parts but soon they were zipped inside their cocoon, their chests pressed against each other. John hoped he didn't get hard in the night.  
  
Sherlock smelled faintly of lavender, but mostly of sweat and musty fabric. John inhaled through his nose as subtly as he could; the scent was intoxicating.  
  
"Sorry for dragging you camping." John mumbled to his genius best friend.  
  
"I can think of worse ways to spend this weekend." Sherlock replied softly.  
  
"You can?"  
  
"I could be at home, two hundred miles away from you."  
  
"I'm glad you're not."  
  
"So am I."  
  
They fell silent.  
  
"Did I tell you about the time I burnt my chemistry teacher's eyebrows off?"  
  
John snorted. "No."  
  
"The rest of the class were doing an experiment of the electrolysis of water, which I did when I was six, so I built a small explosive using the hydrogen from one test tube. The teacher passed by at the wrong moment and demanded to know what I was doing. She peered over my work and _bang_." Sherlock shrugged (not without difficulty) but John could tell, somewhere in the darkness, he was grinning.  
  
John shook his head. "Weren't you expelled?"  
  
"No. _Maman_ used a rather weighty cheque to brush it under the rug, I imagine."  
  
"You're an idiot." John mumbled fondly. "A brilliant, fantastic idiot."  
  
They continued swapping stories deep into the night, hushed voices only stopping to chuckle.  
  
An odd sound from nearby silenced them. They pierced their ears to identify it. A moment later, it came again; a deep moan from the tent beside them, followed by a higher-pitched gasp.  
  
John froze in horror at the sounds and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, biting his lip in an attempt not to laugh.  
  
Well, John thought, at least there was no chance of him getting hard tonight. Or perhaps ever again. 


	10. 3rd August 2011 - Sherlock(17)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second chapter posted today. Don't forget to read that if you haven't already!
> 
> I promise I tried to research the topic, but google must have been having a moodswing that day, because I found nothing useful. Sorry if some/all of the information is inaccurate.

"Hurry up, John!"  
  
"My legs aren't as long as yours, Sherlock. Give me a break."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes but stopped beside a large tree, leaning on it to wait for his minute friend.  
  
He didn't - couldn't - look John's way. They were trekking through the foothills surrounding Rio de Janeiro and, in the sweltering heat, John Watson had stripped practically naked, walking though the undergrowth in what seemed to be only his boxers. Sweat ran in rivulets down his defined chest and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to pin John to the tree the younger teen was leaning so casually on and lick that delicious-looking torso clean.  
  
Sherlock had stayed in a white tshirt and beige shorts, too self-concious to expose his pale freckly chest, with no more muscle than a twig, when John's golden perfect body was nearby.  
  
"Tell me again why I'm here." John panted. For someone who exercised so regularly, John was not as good at this as Sherlock thought he'd be.  
  
"Because I need soil samples to take home. When will be the next time I get to sample a Brazillian soil?"  
  
John rolled his eyes. "I know why _you_ came up here. I want to know why you dragged me along."  
  
Sherlock had known that was what John was asking. He had avoided answering, hoping the first answer would satisfy John, because the real question was a lot harder to answer. He couldn't very well say 'Because I love you more than the oxygen I breathe and I hate every waking minute I spend without you'. Saying that, Sherlock knew, would make it onto the 'a bit not good' list that John kept (yes, there was a physical list; John showed it to Sherlock regularly). So, instead of saying that, he shrugged nonchalantly and said "I need someone to help me carry the samples back."  
  
It wasn't a complete lie.  
  
John had caught up to Sherlock now and was resting against the opposite tree. Sherlock carefully kept his gaze averted. He listened to a bird sing high up in the trees above them, and missed the rustle of leaves at John's feet. He watched a lizard scurry across the trail they'd been following, and missed the triangle-shaped head poking out from the foliage.  
  
He couldn't have missed John's scream if he tried, though. He sprang into action, thanking John for giving him a book on snakes and himself for not deleting the information. The coral snake was still attached to where it had sunk its large teeth into John's exposed thigh. Sherlock grabbed a large rock and swung it, killing the animal instantly with a snap and crunch of bone. He pried the teeth from John's leg and glanced up at his friend.  
  
John was deadly pale. Though he was no longer screaming, he was sweating profusely. It didn't look sexy anymore.  
  
Sherlock whipped out his phone and called the emergency services. He barked down the phone in rapid-fire Portuguese. The woman on the line told him to get John to bite on something so they pain wouldn't drive him to bite his own tongue and, after tying a torniquet around the limb, to swill oil around in his own mouth and suck the poison from the wound. A helicopter would land in the clearing nearby and the paramedics would carry John back. Sherlock thanked her and put away the phone.  
  
Something to bite. Sherlock had his wallet with him. It was thick and made of boring black leather; it might actually look better with bite marks in it. He instructed John to take it in his mouth and the teen did so, breathing through his nose in loud uneven pants. He sounded like he might be going into shock. Sherlock didn't know how to deal with shock.  
  
He found John's tshirt and tied it tightly above the wound. John whimpered around the wallet. Sherlock's heart was breaking, but he refused to let it affect his head.  
  
Oil was the next thing on his list, and it very nearly sent him into a panic. He had no oil. No oil whatsoever except maybe... Sherlock reached into John's bag to find the salad he had in a lunchbox. One more reach in and the salad dressing was in his hand. Despite the constant shaking of being in John's bag, the vinegar and olive oil had stayed separated fairly well. Sherlock poured off the vinegar and swilled some of the oil in his mouth. The taste made him want to throw up and he very nearly gagged. He spat it out and, as fast as he could, punctured the harsh red bubble of poison and began to suck.  
  
Suck, spit, suck, spit, suck, spit, over and over until Sherlock's head was reeling and John's wound was slightly less furious. The oil seemed to have done its job though: Sherlock hadn't tasted a drop of the poison. Sherlock glanced up to see John's eyes fixed on him. They held each other's gaze for a long time.  
  
"In any other situation, I'd probably make a joke about you finally being on your knees for me."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
The forest fell deadly silent but for the rustle of the occasional plant as an animal meandered through the undergrowth. John and Sherlock stayed completely still, storm blue eyes trained on silver, until the loud rumble of an engine broke them from their reverie. Sherlock looked around them quickly, picking up all of their belongings and shoving them into one or other of the bags.  
  
A strong-looking paramedic came and hoisted John up in a fireman's lift, careful to not jostle the injured leg.  
  
Sherlock almost cried with relief when the helecopter took off with both of them on it.  
  
 *******  
  
"A few days' bedrest." Sherlock translated for John and both their restless mothers. The doctor had some English, but Sherlock's Portuguese was better so he'd played translator in every conversation. It had been six hours since the incident and Sherlock was still as white as a sheet. Doctors kept trying to send him home to sleep, but he refused to leave John's bedside for a second. "He should be fine after that. They're keeping him here for one night, just to ensure he doesn't have a lasting reaction to the poison. He'll be able to travel in a few days, so we won't have to delay our flights home."  
  
Mrs Watson nodded tearfully, not saying a word.  
  
Sherlock's mother smiled sadly at him. "We'll go back to the hotel room, Anna. Sherlock will be here and will call if we're needed, won't you, dear?"  
  
Sherlock nodded obediently.  
  
Sherlock's mother leaned in. " _Ça va, mon cheri?_ "  
  
He nodded. " _Ouais, maman, ça va_." He'd been better, but John was alive, at least.  
  
The two women left. The lanky teen fell into the chair by John's bed. John had fallen asleep, probably with help from the morphine inserted into his arm, but he looked a lot better. The colour had returned to his cheeks and his breaths were slower and calmer. There would always be a nasty scar on John's leg from the incident, Sherlock knew. He wondered how many of John's future girlfriends would be repulsed by it, how many would ignore it, not wanting to think about Sherlock's lips on John's skin. Sherlock knew that he'd never be able to think about anything else. 


	11. 3rd August 2012 - John(18)

It wasn't the first time they'd played truth or dare in the middle of the night but it seemed so much scarier now; the worst dares or truths they could come up with at twelve, or fifteen were nothing compared to what an eighteen-year-old's imagination could conjure.  
  
"I dare you to go into your parents' room, find a condom and come back here with it." (Sherlock had done so with only a "William Grant is not my ' _parent_ ', John." and now the tiny packet of latex sat between them, taunting them.)  
  
"I dare you to put the condom under Mycroft's pillow." (John did so. Mycroft stirred, mumbling something about some girl called Susan and files he needed on his desk at 'ten past four', but didn't wake.)  
  
"When was the first time you masturbated?" (Sherlock's answer had surprised him; fifteen. It was rather later than John himself had started.)  
  
"Why haven't you dated anyone since Sarah?" (John was fairly sure his heart had stopped. There had to be a vague way of answering this that would leave Sherlock satisfied but not tell him enough that the genius would figure out John's affections. "I discovered that I had feelings for a close friend of mine." That would do. "I broke up with Sarah when I realised and haven't felt a pull towards anyone else since.")  
  
"I dare you to..." John hesitated. Sherlock's next question would be who was this mystery friend. He needed something good to distract Sherlock from the game altogether. He needed something like - "Skinny dipping. The hotel has an outdoor pool just down the road. I dare you to come skinny dipping with me."  
  
Sherlock was frozen in a statue of marble skin and ebony curls.  
  
John waved a hand in front of Sherlock's face. "Sherlock? Come on. It'll be fun."  
  
Sherlock shook his head. "I don't think so."  
  
John rolled his eyes. "Usual forfeit applies then, go on." The 'usual forfeit' was drinking two hundred mililetres of vinegar and ketchup. It was foul enough to encourage someone to take any dare.  
  
Sherlock shuddered, remembering the taste from when he refused to go into John's sister's room, naked, screaming 'FIRE! FIRE!' a few years back.  
  
"Fine." He said gruffly. "Let's go swimming."  
  
John laughed. "Skinny-dipping." He corrected, standing up. He grabbed two towels from the bathroom, and, after slipping on a pair of sandals, opened the hotel room door and waved Sherlock out in front of him. He earned himself a glower that only made his grin widen.  
  
They slunk down the stairs and out the door of the hotel, Sherlock's catlike nature ensuring no one so much as heard them. They sprinted down the road. By the time they got to the pool, Sherlock was breathless and smiling. Under the light of Florida's two am half-moon, he looked like a silver god, the pale of the moonlight accentuating his sharp features. John figured that he himself looked like a gargoyle and shook the thought away, meeting Sherlock's eyes with a grin.  
  
"Ok, Holmes. You first."  
  
(Ok, Watson. Try not to drool.)  
  
Sherlock's silky shirt was the first thing that came off. John wished he could stop staring, but those beautiful violinist's fingers, white against the deep purple of the fabric, were hypnotising.  
  
He eventually shook himself from his reverie when the silk fell in a delicate heap at the taller teen's feet. He pulled off his own tshirt and slipped out of his shoes. This wasn't the first time Sherlock had seen him naked, and this time they'd be in even less close proximity. All he had to do was not get hard. How difficult could that be?  
  
Sherlock slipped into the shallow end of the pool, wincing as the cold water washed over his warm skin. John could almost feel that warmth against his skin, imagine it's taste on his tongue.  
  
He slid off his own shorts and boxers in one fluid motion and did a running dive into the water beside Sherlock, entering it without a splash. When he surfaced, Sherlock was glaring at him again, but there was a playful glint in his eye that hadn't been there before. John was treading water, just out of his own depth, four feet from Sherlock.  
  
"You're so slow." He teased.  
  
Sherlock stuck his tongue out.  
  
John stuck his own out back. And then genius struck him. He pulled back his arms and sent two giant waves in his best friend's direction. Sherlock squealed as the water hit him and John burst out laughing.  
  
Now thoroughly soaked, Sherlock ducked his head under the water, swimming under John. When he surfaced, he waited for John to turn towards him before showering him with water.  
  
This went on for some time, both boys laughing and squealing until, somehow, suddenly, they were in each other's arms; John's fingers threading through the curls at the back of Sherlock's neck, Sherlock's large hands gripping John's waist. John's breath caught in his throat. It would be so easy to kiss Sherlock right now, close his eyes and -  
  
Sherlock was leaning in.  
  
Even though his brain was stalling, John mirrored his movements.  
  
Their lips were a hair's breadth apart.  
  
John could have licked his own lips and tasted Sherlock's at the same time.  
  
A light was in John's eyes.  
  
He winced and looked in the direction of their disruptor. John's hips felt cold. Sherlock was pulling away.  
  
 _No_ , his mind screamed. He glared at the light for ruining what might be his only perfect chance to kiss Sherlock Holmes.  
  
"Get out of the water right now or we'll call the police." The Florida drawl crashed down around his ears and he mindlessly obeyed, brain still furious about the man's timing.  
  
They got out of the water and were handed their towels.  
  
"You're staying in the Hotel Santa Franco?"  
  
Two simultanious nods.  
  
"What room?"  
  
"Three fourteen. Sir." Sherlock replied.  
  
"Are your parents with you?"  
  
"Mine are. But we're both eighteen."  
  
They got off with a warning. The manager of the hotel asked for their ID and then left without wanting to see Sherlock's parents. When the boys were safely back in their beds and the lights off, it suddenly hit them what's they'd done. They both burst out laughing.  
  
"That has to be the maddest thing we've ever done." John wheezed.  
  
"And you got bitten by a snake in Brazil." Came the quick reply.  
  
"Well that was hardly my fault, you daft sod." And they were laughing again.  
  
It was nearly six am before they got to sleep. Even though Mycroft raised his eyebrows at them during breakfast, no one ever said a word about it. 


	12. 3rd August 2013 - Sherlock (19)

It had been a year since John and Sherlock's nearly-kiss, and still that was all Sherlock could see when he closed his eyes. It had been unusually hard to think about anything other than John; the distance between the teens for the rest of the summer had almost driven him mad.   
  
He hadn't expected being near John and not being allowed to touch him would be any better. Yet, for some reason, he'd still agreed to share a flat with the teen when he asked. They were both studying in the centre of London City - John medicine and Sherlock chemistry - and Sherlock couldn't think of a legitimate reason to say no. And, as he'd expected, it had been so much worse. At least John never brought girls home - still pining over his love back in Somerset, probably - so Sherlock didn't have to deal with the pesky emotion of jealousy.   
  
John had been silent when they arrived in Gatwick airport. Sherlock didn't know what to say either. It was like eleven years of friendship had exhausted all conversation topics besides 'What did you do today?' Or maybe that was the fault of the nearly-kiss. Whatever it was that had caused it, a wall of awkwardness and stumbling had been erected between them.   
  
Sherlock didn't know how to fix it.   
  
The closest they had come to touching since the kissing incident was when Sherlock brushed against John at the airport check-in desk. His skin burned for almost an hour afterwards, John's touch sparking like electricity all along his arm.   
  
When they landed in France (after what felt like the longest plane ride of Sherlock's life, including the one to Rio), they had driven their rented car to a little town by the sea and spent the next few days soaking up the sun and exploring. (The tension was lifting between them, for a few hours each day it was the way it was when they were children again; best friends who hadn't nearly-kissed.)   
  
Sherlock was getting bored.   
  
"Let's go to a new beach today. I heard there are fantastic fish in the next town over."   
  
John looked up from his cereal. "Uh... Sure. When do you want to leave?"   
  
"As soon as you've eaten."   
  
And so they did. The drive was pleasant; Sherlock babbled about Mediterranean fish and John inputted helpful medical knowledge like breeding rituals and cures to toxins (both had done extensive research into animals in the south of France, to be better prepared should the tragedy of Brazil attempt to repeat itself).   
  
They parked the car in a fortunate spot below a large tree and headed to the sand.   
  
For the day that was in it, the beach was surprisingly empty, a few couples lay together on towels and a few families played in the water.   
  
John had frozen beside him. There was something wrong. Sherlock looked again.   
  
Oh.   
  
"We could try the next beach over?" He suggested.   
  
John rolled his eyes. "I couldn't get back in that car for a second, Lock, it's far too warm."   
  
(Sherlock pretended his heart hadn't skipped a beat at the nickname he hadn't heard in a while.)   
  
"Are you sure?"   
  
"What? Are you shy? Come on, it's nothing I haven't seen before." John winked at him.   
  
John _winked_ at him.   
  
Sherlock looked back over the beach at the young couples lying on their towels, bare arses glinting in the sun. The naked three year olds playing chasing in the sea spray. The nude middle-aged couple ambling along the strand, holding hands.   
  
He could stay. Quite happily. Because John wanted to. And John had winked at him.   
  
John lay down their towels and stripped to his swimming trunks. He glanced at Sherlock and smiled reassuringly. Sherlock loved that smile. Sherlock loved all of John's smiles.   
  
Sherlock nodded and pulled off his tshirt (he had reluctantly not worn a button down, at John's request). He sat on the towels and pulled off his sandals.   
  
The burning sand felt heavenly between his toes. He glanced up at John. His friend had his golden back to him, which Sherlock was glad for as John had already removed his togs, and Sherlock was admiring his perfectly round arse, not quite as tanned as the rest of his body. His mind wandered, fantasising about the skin's texture and taste, and how it would look (and feel) to see himself sliding between those flawless cheeks.   
  
John's cough broke him from his reverie as he found himself staring into empty air where John's body used to be.   
  
"Alright?"   
  
Sherlock dragged his gaze to John's face (deliberately avoiding his crotch) and nodded. He was, for some reason, not hard at all, despite his vivid imaginings, and stood to remove his own trunks.   
  
A cool breeze began to blow and he shivered. He didn't look at John. "Swimming?" He suggested.   
  
"Of course."   
  
Sherlock headed towards the water, dipping his toe in to test the temperate. He tiptoed in to his knees and heard a mighty war cry behind him, he turned to see John, very naked and sprinting into the water at a breakneck speed. Sherlock flinched as John splashed past him, diving into the water with the grace of an elephant seal.   
  
He surfaced a few feet in front of Sherlock. "Get in the water, Lock. Don't make me splash you again." He threatened, grinning cheekily.   
  
Sherlock scoffed. "You wouldn't dare."   
  
A small wave was sent in Sherlock's direction, not big enough to reach him. "Wanna bet?"   
  
"You won't."   
  
"Won't I?"   
  
"I'll probably hate you forever."   
  
"I'm willing to risk it."   
  
"I-"   
  
Before Sherlock whip back another clever remark he was drenched from head to toe. He squealed. John laughed.   
  
"I was right. I hate you now."   
  
John shook his head. "Forever's a long time. You'll have forgiven me in five minutes."   
  
"Not this time."   
  
John raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.   
  
"Well, we may as well go see those fish, now that I'm completely drenched."   
  
John grinned and Sherlock grinned back. The wall had crumbled between then and things were, finally, back to normal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They end up naked together in rather a lot of these. It's just so much fun turning our boys into stammering idiots around each other.
> 
> Second last chapter! Woo!


	13. 3rd August 2014 - John(20)

Thirteen texts and four missed calls in the last three days. Sherlock would have to reply some time, John knew that. Mycroft had assured him his best friend was fine. But of course he wasn't fine!  
  
John felt like hitting his head against the wall of their flat.  
  
He should have talked to Sherlock about it. The genius had come home a few days ago to see John surrounded by army leaflets and various information packs. One deducing look later, Sherlock was back down the stairs of the flat and out the door. John had yelled after him and called and texted but after a text from Mycroft, informing him that Sherlock was safe with him and would go home when he felt like it, he'd gotten nothing but static from the Holmes family.  
  
There was the sound of a key in the door and John's head snapped in its direction. He took a step back as Sherlock entered the messy kitchen-cum-sitting-room.  
  
They stared at each other for a while.  
  
Sherlock spoke first. "I owe you an apolog-"  
  
John cut him off. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course you don't. I - I should have talked to you instead of signing up without discussing this."  
  
Sherlock nodded. "So you have signed up then. You're leaving." His voice sounded odd and flat.  
  
"Not for years. I'm going to be in London for basic training. I'll live here with you for that. Finish studying in Bart's and do my internship in a war zone instead of in a hospital."  
  
Sherlock studied him, face unreadable, for what felt like a year. Then he nodded. "That will make you happy."  
  
"It will."  
  
"Then I'm behind you every step of the way."  
  
John blinked. He hadn't been expecting Sherlock to be so accepting.  
  
"I've had a while to stomach it. It'll be good for you. You won't be in much danger, being a doctor. Besides, it's hardly my place to ask you to stay."  
  
John felt a wave of relief. He knew if Sherlock had asked him to stay, he'd have done everything in his power to do so.  
  
Sherlock was still nodding. Maybe not perfectly ok with it then.  
  
"We should go out tonight." John said suddenly. "There's a new bar around the corner."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I despise bars, John."  
  
"Just come with me tonight. Only time I'll ever ask."  
  
He could feel the hesitation rolling off Sherlock in waves. "Fine." The latter said eventually.  
  
John nodded, triumphant.  
  
 *******  
  
Sherlock, it seemed, didn't know his limit when it came to alcohol. He downed shot after shot until John placed a hand on his arm.  
  
A man who must have been in his late twenties sidled up beside Sherlock.  
  
"Well hello there, honey." He was practically drooling over Sherlock. John felt the urge to vomit. "Why don't we-"  
  
" _Mine_." John hadn't meant to say that aloud, he must have been drunker than he thought. The man held his hands up in a surrender and backed away.  
  
Sherlock looked at him. "What was that for?"  
  
"He was going to try get into your pants."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Weren't you going to stop him?"  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If I wanted to stop him, I could have done so. I can take care of myself, John." He spat the name. John's heart sank into his shoes. "I'm going home."  
  
Sherlock staggered up out of his seat, and stumbled across the room. John stood to follow and the room began to spin. He ambled after Sherlock.  
  
The genius was standing by the curb, hand outstretched for a taxi. John shook his head and grabbed Sherlock by the front of his long coat, pulling him down to John's level.  
  
"Mine." He repeated, voice even more of a growl now that it had been at the bar. He leaned in and claimed Sherlock's perfect plump lips.  
  
The taller man froze beneath him for a second before leaning back into the kiss, sloppily shoving his tongue in John's mouth. They both pulled away at the same time to pant.  
  
"Home." Sherlock requested, and John's head nodded twice. They quickly found a cab and one of them, John didn't know which, slurred their address.  
  
They stumbled up flights of stairs that seemed longer now than they had been before. They kissed, frantic and messy, while Sherlock searched for his key, shoving it in the lock (not without missing twice) and twisting.  
  
Their bare tiny flat had never looked so welcoming.  
  
They never made it to a bedroom, collapsing in a sprawling mess of limbs on the couch. John's tshirt was suddenly on the floor as he found himself pinned to the cushions, lips and clumsy tongue kissing down his chest, claiming and tasting every inch of skin. He fiddled at the buttons of Sherlock's damn silk shirt and finally pushed it off his back. Sherlock sat back and divested John of his trousers, socks, shoes and boxers in one jerky motion. John watched as Sherlock did the same to himself and clambered back on top of him.  
  
Their now-naked cocks rubbed against each other as they kissed. Even drunk, John knew he'd never felt anything so wonderful. Sherlock broke the kiss for a moment to wet his fingers in his delicious mouth. He stroked down John's back and around the curve of his arse. His fingers paused at the puckered skin of John's hole and his eyes met John's.  
  
"Yes." The shorter man murmured, nodding and leaning up to kiss the madman on top of him. "Yes, please, yes." His brain stalled and his entire body burned as Sherlock breached him with the pad of his index finger. It was a good burn, a happy fire setting John alight with pleasure and lust.  
  
Sherlock sank the curious finger deeper, probing in different directions, stroking John's silky inner walls, and John squirmed. His body was aching for more, the pain he'd always imagined almost inexistant, though that might have been the fault of the alcohol.  
  
A second finger joined the first and John sank his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder to to stop the cry he felt welling up in his throat.  
  
After three fingers, John begged Sherlock for his cock. Despite a moment's hesitation, Sherlock removed his fingers and sat up.  
  
John got off the couch, arse gaping and cold, and kneeled on the wooden floor in front of his lover. He leaned in and took Sherlock's cock in his mouth, swirling his tongue around as much of the member as he could reach to lubricate it, drunk tongue not registering taste or texture in his hurry. A small part in the back of his mind knew he'd regret that later, if he remembered any of this at all. When he'd wet his best friend's gorgeous prick to his satisfaction, he pushed Sherlock backwards onto the couch and straddled him, leaning in to kiss him once.  
  
He sat up again and, with the help of his hand, guided Sherlock into his hole. He began the slow and steady sink onto Sherlock's cock, impaling himself with the hard organ. He was thicker than John had expected and he let out a soft whine. Sherlock was watching him, eyes wide and pupils blown. When John was fully seated, he stopped to let himself adjust. He wriggled his hips experimentally and Sherlock moaned loudly.  
  
Suddenly, John found himself on his back again with Sherlock on top of him. Black curls tickled his cheek as the genius buried his face in the crook of John's neck.  
  
Then Sherlock began to move inside John and John's mind exploded. He saw stars, fireworks and just about every other cliché thing it was possible to see in a moment of ecstacy. His back arched involuntarily as Sherlock pushed into him again and again, his thrusts getting more and more frantic as he neared climax. John felt himself getting close as well and grabbed his own cock, stroking jerkily.  
  
He came with a yell seconds before Sherlock emptied himself inside him and fell, panting, against him. They lay on the couch, sticky with sweat and cum, Sherlock still inside John, and they both fell asleep.  
  
 *******  
  
John woke up alone a few hours later in a mess of his cum and Sherlock, his arse aching and leaking and his head pounding. He looked around for his best friend, and, finding the room empty, felt his heart break a little. Perhaps this hadn't been what Sherlock had wanted after all.  
  
Just as John was giving up hope of ever repairing his friendship with Sherlock, the lanky genius slipped back into the darkened room and crept over to the couch. He picked John up gingerly with a kiss to the forehead, not realising the shorter man was awake, and carried him to his bedroom. John was placed carefully on Sherlock-smelling sheets and had covers put over him. A moment felt the mattress dip behind him and Sherlock wrap himself around the shorter man, just like they'd done years ago.  
  
This time, John didn't resist the urge to nuzzle back against Sherlock and earned a kiss to the back of his neck as a reward.  
  
 _ **Fin**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that brings us up to today. About time, am I right? I'd just like to say a big thanks to everyone who read this story over the past fortnight or so. There are two epilogues that will be posted tomorrow and the next day so stay tuned for those. As always, you can follow me on tumblr ([ _thelizlanganblog_](http://thelizlanganblog.tumblr.com/)) where I post short pieces of writing (almost) weekly. Love you all, Liz xx


	14. Epilogue I - 3rd August 2024 - Sherlock (30)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years later, the boys are being freaking adorable.

Sherlock woke up, alone (like he always did these days), to the sound of a phone ringing. He rolled over in bed and instructed his computer to answer the call.  
  
"Good morning, brother dear."  
  
Sherlock grunted in reply.  
  
"I have some rather bad news, I'm afraid. You might want to be awake for it."  
  
"Time?"  
  
The computer and Mycroft answered at together, their voices sounding scarily similar (that said more about Mycroft than today's technology, Sherlock thought.) "Eight thirty three."  
  
Sherlock growled and sat up. "I'm awake, Mycroft. What is it?"  
  
"It's about your doctor."  
  
Sherlock's blood ran cold.  
  
"I think it would be best if you went to Afghanistan for a while."  
  
Shot. Not dead, but untransportable.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Left shoulder. He's just out of the operating theatre; still unconscious but stable."  
  
Sherlock stood up and pulled a suitcase from under his bed, throwing clothes into it haphazardly.  
  
"Calm down, Sherlock. He will live."  
  
"Shut up, Mycroft."  
  
The computer ended the call (as it was instructed to do when those three words were said).  
  
Sherlock shot down the stairs like a bullet (badly placed simile, he thought grimly) and into his brother waiting car.  
  
"The airport, sir?" The driver said as he started the car.  
  
"I have to make one stop first."  
  
 *******  
  
Everyone at the hospital in Afghanistan seemed to be expecting him, he only said the name 'John Watson' and he was escorted right to his partner's door.  
  
His breath caught in his throat. The war had aged John in a way his Skype camera hadn't quite captured. His hair was lighter now, sun-bleached, his face tanned almost past recognition. He looked an awful lot older than thirty, Sherlock thought ruefully, like the desert had sucked his youth from him day by day.  
  
John stirred and Sherlock flew to his side. "John?"  
  
"Sh'lock?" John's voice was slurred with pain, confusion and medication. "Why -?"  
  
"Mycroft." Sherlock offered as explanation, taking the seat by the bed.  
  
John nodded, then winced. "I'm sorry."  
  
Sherlock let out a soft laugh. "Don't apologise. You survived, didn't you?"  
  
"I promised you I wouldn't get hurt."  
  
Sherlock kissed John's forehead. "I'll probably be able to forgive you, way in the distant future." He teased.  
  
John smiled weakly. "Love you."  
  
Sherlock threaded his fingers through John's. "I love you too."  
  
John fell asleep soon after. The next time he woke up, just as the sun was setting, he was visibly stronger, but that said more about his previous condition than his current one. With the help of Sherlock and a nurse, he was propped up to a sitting position on the bed.  
  
"This morning when the sun rose, I thought it would be my last." John said softly. "All I could think about was how the red of the sky was the same colour as my blood. And how wasn't it ironic that daybreak was always a metaphor for life starting and that was when mine would end. My only regret was not kissing you enough, not telling you I loved you every second of every day. I begged every deity I thought to name to let me see you one last time, to feel your lips against mine or your curls against my fingers." He smiled softly at Sherlock. "I guess one of them listened."  
  
Sherlock swallowed thickly. "Does this mean you'll be dragging me to mass every week to thank Him?" He murmured, teasing.  
  
John shook his head lightly. "Wouldn't dream of it. You'd never come."  
  
Sherlock figured that he might, if John ever found out which god had saved him, because he'd wanted to thank that god for the rest of his life.  
  
"I have something to ask you, John." He slipped his hand into his pocket, to feel the little box where his purchase lay, safe and sound.  
  
John turned his head to look at him. "What is it?"  
  
The box felt heavy between his fingers as he pulled it out into the open. He slid off his chair, onto one knee.  
  
"I was going to wait until you came back from Afghanistan to do this, but I suppose, seeing as you'll be coming home with me in a few weeks, there's no point delaying it any longer. You're the most amazing man I've ever known, the best friend I could have asked for, the only person I've ever loved. You, John Watson, are the reason my world keeps spinning. I know that because, this morning, it very nearly stopped. I can't live without you any more than I could live with oxygen. I can think of no greater honour than being your husband. If you'll have me."  
  
John blinked. "I wish I could say something touching like that but my mind is drawing a blank. Yes, you idiot, I thought you'd never ask." He opened his good arm and Sherlock leaned in, kissing him tenderly as if half afraid he'd break.  
  
"Put the ring on me, Lock."  
  
Sherlock did so. It was a simple silver band, with no engravings or jewels.  
  
John admired it. "It's perfect. Oh, Sherlock. I love it."  
  
Sherlock thought his face would split from smiling.  
  
A nurse came a while later to tell Sherlock that visiting hours were over and that there was a room for him in the guest house next door. He found both men squeezed into John's small single bed, fast asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it takes them ten years to get engaged. But they're idiots. So...


	15. Epilogue II - 3rd August 2034 - John (40)

"Papa! Daddy! Wake up, wake up, wake _up_!"   
  
John looked over at his husband who groaned.   
  
"Your turn, I think." Sherlock mumbled, waving his hand as if trying to swat away the noise.   
  
John chuckled. "We don't _take_ turns anymore, you idiot." He said, running his hand down Sherlock's chest to dig his fingers lightly into the gap under his fourth rib on the left side.   
  
Sherlock slapped his hand away and sat up. "I hate you."   
  
"You've been saying that for thirty years, I have yet to see any evidence of it."   
  
There was an impatient knock at the door. "Daddy! Papa!"   
  
"Come in, _cherie_." Sherlock called, running his hand through his hair.   
  
A red haired blur shot into the room and bounded on the bed and came to rest between the two men.   
  
"Presents." She demanded.   
  
"Presents?" John glanced at Sherlock and grinned. "Why would we get you presents?"   
  
"It's my _birthday_ today."   
  
"Is it? What age are you?"   
  
The little girl laughed. "I'm six, Daddy."   
  
"Six? Six _years_ old? Today?"   
  
She nodded.   
  
"Then you can't be our daughter. Our baby girl isn't half as grown up as six."   
  
Sherlock was shaking his head at John, the doctor could see it out of the corner of his eye. The taller man was trying not to look amused. And failing.   
  
"But I am."   
  
"Are what?"   
  
"Your daughter."   
  
"You are? Let me check. Turn around and face me." She did so. "You have the right hair." John reasoned, tugging lightly at one springy ginger ringlet. A gentle finger tilted her head upwards. "The right eyes, too." He examined her pyjama top. "I certainly remember buying these pyjamas."   
  
The little girl giggled. She knew what was coming next.   
  
John's fingers dove at her belly. She shrieked.   
  
"Well, you're definitely ticklish in all the right places.” John decided after pulling his hands away. “Maybe you are our daughter after all."   
  
"I am! I'm Alice Watson-Holmes." She crawled into Sherlock's lap. "Can I have my presents now, Papa?"   
  
Sherlock, running his fingers through the ginger curls, met John's gaze. There was a loving resignation in his eyes. "I don't know, Al. Your dad and I didn't realise it was your birthday today. We don't have any presents."   
  
Alice paused for a second, wondering whether he was being serious or not. Deciding he couldn't possibly be, she shook her head, curls flying in every direction. "After breakfast?"   
  
John grinned at Sherlock. "After breakfast." They agreed simultaneously.   
  
" _Habille-toi, ma cherie. J'ai besoin d'une minute avec ton père_."   
  
(They had decided early on that Sherlock would teach Alice French, being half French himself.)   
  
" _D'accord, Papa. À bientôt_." Alice slid off the bed and scurried from the room.   
  
John grinned at him. "I think my French is getting better. I understood most of that."   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I've been speaking French to her since she was in her cradle and you're still only picking up _most_ of what I say? John, you're hopeless."   
  
"I can't help it. You start speaking French and all I hear is ' _I am the sexiest thing alive. Can you believe I married you?_ '."   
  
Sherlock laughed and stole a kiss from John. "I'd not change a thing even if I could." He promised.   
  
John smirked. "Even though you hate me?"   
  
" _Je te deteste pas, mon cheri. C'est pas possible. Je t'ado-_ "   
  
John silenced him with a hard kiss.   
  
*******   
  
Breakfast was usually a rushed sort of meal. It was even more so when a six year old was hanging out of your various limbs, begging for birthday presents. Even Sherlock's magic French did nothing to calm her (mainly consisting of frantic ' _Doucement, cherie_ 's as Alice came dangerously close to upending science equipment). Eventually, dishes were piled by the sink, bundles wrapped in various coloured papers were fetched and the little family seated themselves around their living room.   
  
"Which first?" John asked.   
  
"That one!"   
  
It was picked up, a pink oblong package with a silver bow, and handed to her.   
  
She shook it. "A book?"   
  
Sherlock smiled. "Open it and see."   
  
It wasn't a book. It was two; _Le Petit Prince_ , and its English translation.   
  
Next came another book (wrapped in blue and gold paper); _The Hobbit_. It was followed by a telescope (wrapped in silver with various coloured spots), and after that a set of six fine glass test tubes (black and white checker pattern).   
  
*******   
  
After spending the afternoon doing various experiments with the food in the kitchen, Alice insisted John read one of new books to her until the stars came out so they could use her new telescope. She fell asleep in his arms twenty-five minutes later and he carried her into her room, placing her gently under the covers and planting a gentle kiss on her forehead.   
  
John stood in the moderate darkness of Alice's room for a few more minutes, gazing down at her sleeping form fondly. He felt arms wrap around his waist from behind and he leaned back against his husband.   
  
"Do you ever wonder why the interesting stuff in our life always seems to happen on the third of August?"   
  
Sherlock shrugged, resting his chin on the top of John's head. "Maybe it's just an 'us' sort of day." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you with little to no French, here are the translations:   
>   
>  " _Habille-toi, ma cherie. J'ai besoin d'une minute avec ton père_." - Go and get dressed, my darling. I need a minute with your father.   
>   
>  " _D'accord, Papa. À bientôt_." - Ok, papa. See you soon.   
>   
>  " _Je ne te deteste pas, mon cheri. Ce n'est pas possible. Je t'adore._ " - I don't hate you, my darling. That's not possible. I adore you.   
>   
>  " _Doucement, cherie._ " - Gently, darling.   
>   
>  " _Le Petit Prince_ " - The Little Prince, a childrens' book by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (well worth a read by the way, makes me cry every time)   
>   
>  If the grammar is a little wrong, I’m sorry. The French is all from my own head and I’m by no means fluent. If you have any amendments to make, please tell me, I’ll gladly fix them.   
>   
>   
>  Alright, it's well and truly finished now. Thank you for taking the time to read this story. For those who lefts comments or kudos, your feedback means a lot.   
>   
> _Adieu, mes petits_. Liz xx


End file.
